


Triumvirate

by sadlittletiger



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anachronic Order, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Love/Hate, M/M, Mostly Dany POV, Multi, Post Season 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 18:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17986247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlittletiger/pseuds/sadlittletiger
Summary: “The way you look at our False Bastard, after all this time...” Jaime muttered, taking a deep gulp of his wine.“I see god in him,” she said, unashamed.“And the whole of the world sees god in you,” he replied, raising his drink.





	Triumvirate

**Author's Note:**

> I started imagining this after reading theories about Jaime and Cersei's parentage. I thought it was really fantastic (if not a little improbable) that the final war might be a civil one, between the unknowing members of a single family. 
> 
> I've seen the really violent hatred that Jaime/Dany writers have received if they tagged their relationships "incorrectly", and so until this progresses a bit further, I'll refrain from labeling it what it truly is - a Jon/Dany/Jaime love story.

_The Eve of the First Feast of Dragons_

* * *

“The Hound has cut his hair.”

“Ser Clegane.”

“Ser Cle _gane_ has cut his hair,” Jaime corrected himself with an eye roll.

Daenerys looked up.  The Great Hall was alive that evening with a thousand conversations, the cacophony of metal and porcelain, the song of a dozen musicians.  Every torch in the keep would burn for a fortnight. There were events, and jousts, and plays to be had in the sun; feasts, and dances, and ceremonies to light the dark.  Their allies would cry and laugh, bicker and make amends, remember and rejoice, all of them together, in honor of a reborn Westeros.

She marveled, for a moment, at the transformation.  After all, only six months before...

“It’s quite short.”

“So it is,” she agreed when she spied him.  Sandor Clegane stood behind Lady Stark’s high-backed chair; his hair, silver and black, was indeed shorn nearly to his scalp.  Gone were the ropey locks that had hidden his angry eyes, and he’d shed his dirty leathers for simple armor that showed unblemished and bright.  Some things though, had not changed at all - his hand remained conspicuously on the hilt of his sword, and he glared around the hall, as suspicious and sullen as before the wars.  “He looks well.”

Jaime snorted.

Her lips twitched, halfway to a smirk.  There was an incurably grudging side to Jaime and despite herself, she found it… almost charming.  

He sighed beside her, his long legs crossed, ankle to knee.  “Do you think he’ll stand over her all night?”

“Yes.”

“They don’t do a thing to hide it, do they?”

“Does that bother you?”  She glanced at him, finally raising an eyebrow in the way he’d many times told her he hated.  

“No.  It’s just…”

“ _It’s just_?” she prodded, unable to stop the spread of her genuine smile.  Flustering him was one of her most guilty pleasures.

“Less than two years ago… it would have been unthinkable, would it not?” he asked, waving his golden hand, dismissive.  “The highest-born Northroner and a disfigured half-knight deserter. Parading around as if they’re only a Lady and her trusted guard.”

“Leave them be, Jaime,” she chided, looking out over the crowd and plucking a berry from a garnished plate.  “I don’t think anyone cares for titles anymore but us.”

At one of the long tables below, Lady Stark bent her head to better hear her brother.  She swept the cascade of her brilliant red hair over her shoulder and leaned into him. The furs of their cloaks mingled.  He pointed at the buttresses in the elaborate ceiling and they both looked up. She nodded and gestured, and he took a sip from a golden cup.  The youngest wolf sat across from them, engaged in a fierce conversation with the Baratheon boy. She straddled the bench, tossing a glittering knife into the pocked wood between her legs, over and over, while her great black eyes sparked.  

“I haven’t seen Sansa Stark smile since she was ten-and-three,” Jaime conceded.

She watched Sansa’s graceful hand return to hover just over her stomach, perhaps protective.  The goblet of strongwine before her was untouched.  It was early - she _herself_ may not have been aware.  But Daenerys knew the signs.  “She’s with child.”

 _“What?”_ He barked, almost choking.  “I don’t believe it. She’s as willowy as she’s ever been.”

“Time will tell,” she said.

Booming laughter rang out, echoing down on the hall like so many chiming sept bells.  The enormous brute Tormond staggered to his feet as a Dothraki threw a drunken punch at his face.  Before long, a pile of wildlings and horselords wrestled in between the crowded tables in a good-natured brawl.  With a few sharp rebukes from an old woman whose drink had been upended, the scuffle dissipated as quickly as it had begun.

An attending wet nurse approached the Stark table, and in her arms was a pale-haired babe, swaddled and squirming.  The infant’s frustrated cries barely rose above the din, their guests too invested in their own merriment to notice.  Jon stood and reached out for the bundle of anguish; Daenerys could see shushes of comfort on his lips as he sat next to his lady sister again, rocking the child gently.  Sansa stroked the tiny hand that tried vainly to clasp the air. Jon smiled and cradled the baby to his chest, staring intently at her wet pink face until her weeping ceased.  He was the only one who could console her once she fell to tears.

“The way you look at our False Bastard, after all this time...” Jaime muttered, taking a deep gulp of his wine.  

“I see god in him,” she said, unashamed.

“And the whole of the world sees god in _you_ ,” he replied, raising his drink.

She could hear the pain in his voice.   _What about me_? she knew he’d ask if he had the courage.   _What do they see in me?  Am I yet the Kingslayer?_  But he did not have the courage, nor the words, and so he seemed to ease his suffering by japing at any show of affection between them.  She folded her hands in her lap and turned one of her rings around her finger, over and over.

“We must protect him,” she said after a moment.  “The Dothrak say he is the Heart of the Dragon.”

“Well, if the _Dothrak_ have said it…” Jaime mocked, swirling the wine in his cup.  

“The crones have never been wrong,” she went on, ignoring his derision.  “They say I am the Spirit, he is the Heart, and _you_... are the Head.”

She dared a glance at him from the corners of her eyes.  He was very still beside her.

“You had better hope your savages’ prophecy is nonsense.”  He swallowed what was left of his drink and grimaced. “For a time, I was better with a sword than any fighter in Westeros… For a time.”  His voice was low with regret. “But I was _always_ the dumbest Lannister.  It would be a shame if I was the Head of anything, let alone your fabled Dragon.”

Before she could stop herself, she placed her hand on his arm.  It was a reaction, an error on her part, but it was too late. His flesh was hot and firm through his gilt tunic.  He looked down, brow furrowed, at where she touched him… and then he met her serious gaze.

“You are not a Lannister, and you should be glad for it.  There is only one left of their illustrious name,” she said, pulling her hand away.  “They cannot claim you now.”

He stared at her, _i_ _nto_ her, she felt, searching for some insult he would have to defend himself against with his deadly-sharp tongue, the last weapon he had left in the world.  He could breathe vitriol the way her dragons could breathe fire. She knew though, that he’d find no injury in what she’d said, only truth.

His cunning had ultimately put her on the throne, whether anyone dared speak it aloud or not.

“I suppose then… it is known,” he said, harkening back to the Dothraki phrase with a hint of his wicked smile.

She smiled too as she sat up straighter on her throne, turning her attention back the raucous hall.  

One chair in the sea of friends - covered in fine velvet, the polished wood glimmering in the light of the candles - had remained unoccupied for the first night of the feast.  Daenerys tried to avert her eyes before Jaime noticed.

“Honor,” he said.

She was too obvious.  She cleared her throat.  “I’m sorry?”

“It’s honor that keeps her away.”  The mirth was gone out of him.

“You can order her to court if it pleases you,” she suggested.

“I won’t.”

“It’s within your right as --”

“Don’t.  Please.”

“I told you once, that I would not stand in the way,” she said.  

“You did.  It was kind.”  He stared at the empty chair, seeming to harden.  “I’ll not forget your many kindnesses, Your Grace.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” she implored.  “You twist it to find offense.”

But icy silence fell between them again, in spite of her efforts.

Together, they watched as Jon handed Sansa the quieted babe.  She caressed the child’s soft skin, fussed over the thick golden curls.  She chattered to Jon like a songbird, sometimes glancing down at the cherubic face, other times bouncing her knee to keep the baby happy.

Daenerys tried to imagine what she was saying.  

_What a beautiful little girl._

_Such a lovely crown of hair._

_She will be tall, like her father._

Sansa ran her thumb over one of the infant’s flaxen eyebrows.  She frowned and said something in Jon’s ear. Daenerys felt her heart stammer at their seemingly solemn exchange.  What had vexed her? What could she have said?

_Her eyes are so green._

_She looks just like the rest of them._

Sansa studied the bundle in her arms, tiny feet kicking out from under the fur-lined blanket.  The baby twisted and turned disagreeably, her cries building again. Daenerys’s pulse thundered in her head until she couldn’t hear the thousand voices, or the musicians, or the child that wasn’t hers.  All she could hear were the conjured words, racing faster and faster.

_She’ll grow up to be mad._

_What a stupid thing, to let the girl live._

_She will finish what her mother started and strike down the weak and greedy Dragon Queen with the fury of --_

“Are you well?” Jaime asked, making her jump.

“Yes,” she said quickly.  “A bit tired. I think I’ll retire.”  She pushed away from the table.

“Shall I fetch your lord husband?” he drawled.  A grape popped between his gleaming white teeth.  “To see you to bed?”

“No.  Leave him.”  She looked out at Jon once more.  “He is never so happy as he is with his family.”  

“Mmm.  Ecstatic,” Jaime snarked while he pantomimed to a servant for another dreg of wine.

She stood to leave, and the entire party stood with her, their conversations cut short, their faces turned to her expectantly.  The musicians stopped playing, their flutes lowered, their bows resting patiently on strings, mid-note. She smiled tightly, the formal deference of so many subjects still catching her off-guard.  With a single clap, she brought the Great Hall back to life before snaking her way out of the crowd.

* * *

_One year earlier_

* * *

The book lay like an open grave on the table.  Outside, a bitter wind howled against the castle walls of Winterfell.  The four of them sat, as stoic and still as the effigies in the crypt beneath their feet.

“You’re certain?” she asked in a breathless whisper.

Her eyes were unblinking and watery, transfixed upon the name.   _His_ name _._

“I have seen it,” Bran said, the fire raging in the hearth behind him.

“It’s not true.”  Jon’s voice was a choked, desperate rumble.  “I’m the bastard son of --”

“But you aren’t anyone’s bastard, Jon.”  Sam spoke up, breaking his long silence. He stood as if to muster strength.  “You’re a… a _prince_ , the legitimate heir to the --”

“Choose your words carefully, Maester Tarly, or meet the same fate as your kin,” she warned in a voice so low that it seemed not to be her own.

After glancing around at the other faces, Sam found his seat again.

They were quiet.  A log cracked and broke apart into feathery cinders.

“Am I to relinquish my claim, then?  Is that what you expect me to do?” She finally looked up from the book.  Her silver hair quivered with every breath - each more panicked than the last - and her poor heart thundered away endlessly in her chest.  “Did you imagine that I would just _step aside_?”

“Dany,” Jon said softly.

“No…,” she ground out, shaking her head.  “No… I have prepared for this my entire life… I will not go without incident, I --”

“ _Dany_ ,” he reached out, took her hands in his own.  The cold leather of his gloves soothed her palms.  “Look at me.”

She swallowed, her eyes downcast, full of a rage she did not want him to see.

“ _Look_ at me,” he demanded, turning her face towards him.  He stroked the dimple of her delicate chin.

Her jaw clenched, her teeth sinking into her cheek until she tasted the iron of her own blood.

“I don’t give a damn about the Iron Throne.”  He frowned beautifully. “I care only to put you on it.”

Her nostrils flared.  The reflection of golden flames danced in her eyes.  “When my people discover…” she began.

“They will _never_ know,” he growled.  He took her by her shoulders.  “Never.”

“They must.”  She was hollow.

“No.”  His grip tightened.  “I don’t want anything to do with it.  I’ll deny it to my last breath.”

“Aegon,” Bran said, and they turned to him.  “She’s right. They will come to know. It has already been decided.”

Jon stood, pointing at the boy who had been his brother.  “Don’t you ever call me that again, do you understand? You’ll speak not a word of this - _either_ of you.”  His eyes flashed, as dark as dragonglass in the firelight.

For the first time in a great while, she saw the snarling wolf in him, and it riled the beast in her.

“Jon or Aegon... What you are called matters not to the dragon blood in your veins.”  The boy’s face was stony.

“Stop.  You’ll stop that now, Bran,” Jon ordered.

“Are there any more _secret_ Targaryens you’d like to tell me about, my lord?” She could not control herself any longer, and she spat out the dreaded question between her bared teeth.  

The room fairly vibrated with the violence of her fear.

But Bran only stared at her.  Her chest heaved under the weight of his silence.  

“Yes.  There are others,” he finally said, and her stomach lurched into her throat.

“That’s enough!” Jon bellowed.  “I’ve heard enough! I won’t listen to any more!”

“With a claim as strong as mine?” She demanded over the shouting.  

“You cannot be serious!  We’re speaking of visions, and myths… curses.  It’s ridiculous, it’s --” Jon stuttered to a halt.  He stared at her helplessly.

“ _You_ spoke of an army of the living dead…  _You_ spoke of men seeing through crows’ eyes.”  She searched his face. “I didn’t believe you.  I won’t make that mistake again.”

Jon hung his head in acquiesce.  

She steeled herself and met Bran’s strange gaze once more.  “Tell me,” she said. “About those who would take what belongs to me.”

“They are closer to the Iron Throne than you have ever been, Daenerys Targaryen,” Bran said.  He stopped then, seeming to withdraw from them, to withdraw from the room entirely, though he sat in exactly the same place.  His fingers twitched; it was the only sign that he was yet alive.

Her lips trembled and the tears that had been threatening to fall all evening pricked at the corners of her eyes.   _Come back_ , she wanted to cry.   _Come back and help me._  But she could not, because she was a khaleesi, a queen.

And there was no one who could help her now.

A sharp knock at the door startled them.  Sam’s face blanched; he looked to her first, and then to Jon.

“Your Grace?” Tyrion’s muffled voice carried under the great door.

“I told you I am not to be disturbed,” she growled, her hands like claws around the arms of her chair.

“My apologies, but there is… an important matter.  Utmost importance.”

Jon watched her and waited for her direction.  After a moment, she nodded, and closed her eyes, listening as the door was unbarred, the hinges creaking under its weight as it opened.

Tyrion stood before them then, pale and near to shaking.

“What is it?” she snapped.

“A guest has arrived.  And he requests an audience with you… He bears… difficult news.”  He seemed to shrink under her glare.

“Who is it?”  She rubbed her temples, a terrible pain building in her head.

Tyrion hesitated.

“I must know who wishes to address me!”  Her fist pounded the table.

“My brother, your Grace,” he admitted.  “Come directly from King’s Landing.”

She blinked, her lips parted, her breath caught in her lungs.  She looked to Bran… but he was blank and empty.

The ugly echo of his words though, hung in the cold, still air.

_They are closer to the Iron Throne than you have ever been._

 


End file.
